


you don't have to say i love you (we can work from home)

by langstwins



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Bottom Lance (Voltron), Depressed Lance (Voltron), Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) Has Self-Esteem Issues, M/M, Married Life, Masturbation, Power Bottom Lance (Voltron), Protective Keith (Voltron), References to Depression, Sexting, Sexual Tension, Smut, Suicidal Lance (Voltron), Switch Keith (Voltron), Switch Lance (Voltron), Talk of Suicide, Team Voltron Family, Team as Family, Top Keith (Voltron), Top Lance (Voltron), Worried Keith (Voltron), basically hurt/comfort with a side of smut, everyone loves lance, post-season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 04:19:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16654135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/langstwins/pseuds/langstwins
Summary: Chronic depression is trying to dig its claws back into Lance. Keith is worried. The two have a long-overdue conversation...and sex, too, while they're at it.





	you don't have to say i love you (we can work from home)

**Author's Note:**

> So. Uh.
> 
> I started this thinking it was going to be a 2k little smut piece to the song "Work From Home" by Fifth Harmony and it...turned into a different beast entirely.
> 
> Now it's basically married Lance and Keith learning to talk about their feelings like mature adults, Lance fighting a continuous battle against depression, and some smut on the side for good measure. Oh, and a cameo by Adashi, because why not.
> 
> In the nature of NaNoWriMo, I wrote this entire thing in seven straight hours and it hasn't been edited at all beyond a quick proof-reading for spelling and grammar. 
> 
> Enjoy! (I guess? I hope? I don't know. Just read it.)

 

**"I'm sending pic after picture, I'mma get you fired/I know you're always on the night shift, but I can't stand these nights alone."** Fifth Harmony, _Work From Home._

 

**"You don't have to say I love you to say I love you."** Troye Sivan, _for him._

 

* * *

 

There was probably nothing in the world sadder, Lance thought, than the sound of sex noises from a single voice, alone in an empty room.

_Well_. That probably wasn't true for everyone. It used to not be a sad thing for him, either. Safe to say, things had changed over the years.

It was particularly sad for Lance, though the dildo he moved diligently in and out of himself really did feel good, because one week previously, it wouldn't have been a dildo he was fucking himself with. It would have been Keith, his warm flesh and sexy moans mingling with Lance's own. Keith's thick length, fucking him, instead of cold plastic.

It wouldn't have been his own fist he was thrusting his lubed cock into, searching for friction. It would have been Keith, laid out before him, an absolute masterpiece that was all his to ravish.

It just...would have been Keith. It all would have been Keith.

All of this, every sound, every sensation, was dull in comparison to the real thing that Lance had grown accustomed to having. Such was the consequence of taking it for granted.

"Make it sound like we're divorced or something," Lance grumbled to himself, then bit his bottom lip with a deep moan as the angle of the dildo hit just right inside him. It was difficult to reach far enough to move the toy at that angle consistently.

Keith, on the other hand, knew the angle by heart. He knew exactly what Lance liked without having to ask. Keith had him memorized. If this night was teaching Lance anything, it was that he apparently didn't know nearly as much about his own body as Keith knew about it.

That probably shouldn't have been a turn-on, but it definitely was. Lance lifted his lube-covered hand off his cock to roll a nipple between two fingers, the other hand still moving the toy inside him at a desperate pace. He panted iterations of his husband's name, surprised at the ache of emotion in his chest as he did so.

Keith, who used to work the same nine-to-five shift as Lance, both working as flight instructors for teenage cadets down at the new and improved Galaxy Garrison, had done _something_ to piss Iverson off. He wouldn't admit it, but Lance knew he had. Why else would Iverson have moved Keith to the night shift, forced to teach cargo pilot refresher courses to adults twice his age?

The time on the weekdays when Keith and Lance normally commuted home together, had dinner, made love, and generally enjoyed one another's company was now nonexistent. For the past week, Lance had driven home alone, spent thirty minutes catching up with Keith before he left for his own shift, jerked himself off in the shower, and fallen asleep, feeling lonely, in a cold bed.

He sometimes woke up when Keith stumbled home in the early hours of the morning, shuffling quietly around the house to eat and shower before curling his blessedly warm body against Lance's back, holding him close, pressing kisses to his neck and jaw. Once, he heard Keith stifling his own moans over the running shower water, likely for fear of waking up Lance, who he thought was sound asleep. Lance had painstakingly fought the urge to touch himself to the sound, lest Keith crawl into bed to find the sheets soiled with cum.

Keith was only a couple of hours into his own sleep cycle by the time Lance had to get up for work in the mornings. He pressed kisses over Keith's tranquil face before he left, sometimes earning a sleepy _love you_ in response.

And so the past seven days went. But Lance was lonely, sad, sexually frustrated, and _so_ over it.

Tonight, a quick jerk-off in the shower was not enough for him. He missed Keith, warm and real and whose body Lance knew like the back of his hand. He partially missed sex - but more than anything, he missed _intimacy_.

He missed his husband.

And since said husband was so uncharacteristically hesitant to fight Iverson on the shift change, and also refused to fess up to why the change had been made in the first place, Lance decided, tonight, to take matters into his own hands. With more than just a toy and some sad attempt at masturbation.

Iverson wouldn't fire Keith. He needed all the former paladins. They were the most valuable staff members the Garrison could ever hope to have. That wasn't even Lance's ego speaking; it was just the truth.

But if Keith became enough of an issue to have on the night shift, perhaps Iverson would consider returning the schedule back to normal.

It was this line of thought that led Lance to take a series of explicitly pornographic photos of himself on his phone as he masturbated, showcasing his erect cock, his hole stretched around the toy, his red face and sweaty hair, pupils dilated, teeth dug into his bottom lip. There was even a video, taken with the phone propped up on the nightstand so both hands could be free, of Lance fucking himself with the dildo and jerking himself off at a desperate pace, moaning and whimpering Keith's name, begging to cum (falsely, for show; without Keith, he didn't manage to bring himself anywhere near orgasm. He couldn't decide if that was sad or not.)

Keith was impulsive. Keith was a risk-taker. Keith was also entirely obsessed with Lance's body. When a video popped up on his screen of Lance masturbating, looking absolutely wrecked and verbally pretending Keith was the one pleasuring him, he wouldn't be able to resist watching it. Maybe he would watch it in a vulnerable place. Maybe he would get in trouble.

Maybe he would get moved back to the day shift. Maybe Lance would be able to return to regularly scheduled programming, and pretend a years-gone depression wasn't trying to dig its claws back into him again. Pretend he wasn't hurt and sad and lonely and fighting the thoughts that told him _Keith won't tell you why Iverson moved him because Keith_ asked _to be moved. He's sick of you. He doesn't want you anymore._

Pretend he hadn't cried himself to sleep last night, wrapped in four blankets to simulate Keith's furnace of a torso pressed against him.

So Lance took the video, and the pictures, made himself look as much of a hot mess as possible, and sent them.

He tried, _really_ tried, for nearly another hour to bring himself to the edge. Lance tried until the toy had stretched him so well that it wasn't large enough of a dildo to give him the same stimulation anymore, and his erection was mostly wilted despite his constant attempts to keep himself hard.

Lance swallowed around a lump of emotion in his throat as he tossed the toy carelessly to the other end of the bed. He rose on shaky legs to turn the lights off, then curled back under the covers in the dark, still naked and messy. He spared one last glance at the black-screened phone.

There was no notification. Lance did not turn the screen on to double check. He left the phone on the cold, perfectly made right side of the bed next to a long plastic toy, tried not to cry as thoughts of _avoided, unneeded, unwanted_ invaded his mind, and slept.

 

* * *

 

He didn't sleep for long.

Lance's eyes snapped open when the covers were drawn back and a warm, naked body was pressed against his. A familiar body, with a familiar, hard cock pressing into the small of his back. A voice Lance would recognize anywhere moaned happily at the contact.

The alarm clock facing him from Keith's nightstand read 2:03 A.M. Ten minutes since he'd given up hope of receiving either a reply or an orgasm and given in to sleep. Keith wasn't meant to be home for another hour at least, and yet here he was, hands roaming over Lance's body in a way that made his previously uninterested cock jump to life.

Any feelings of sadness, of rejection, of being unwanted were gone in an instant, because Keith was _here_. Touching him, moaning for him, home early just to press their bare bodies together and be with Lance.

"Keith," Lance whispered, and pressed himself back intentionally against Keith's cock, rubbing his closed ass cheeks against the length. Keith moaned again, biting gently at Lance's earlobe. "Why're you home so early?"

"You know damn well," Keith rasped. "That...fucking _video_. God, made me so hard. Had to tell Iverson I was about to blow chunks so he'd let me skip out on my paperwork. You're damn lucky my classes were over."

Lance felt tears prick again at his eyes, but not out of sadness this time. Keith's lack of reply hadn't been out of disinterest. Keith's lack of reply had been a result of him being busy escaping work and rushing home to finish Lance off himself.

"God, I love you," he choked out, rolling over on his back so that Keith could straddle him. The lamp on Lance's side of the bed had been turned on to a dull setting, giving just enough light for the two of them to see what they were doing. It wasn't a gasp or a moan that escaped Lance as Keith ground their hard dicks together, but a teary sniffle. "I really fucking l-love you."

Keith seemed to realize, then, that Lance was in a slightly emotional state. He leaned forward, taking Lance's face in his hands and wiping away a single tear with his thumb the instant it fell.

"I love you, too," Keith said softly. He furrowed his brows, frowning in concern, face a mere inches from Lance's. "Are you okay? Are you sick? We don't have to do anything if you're not feeling up to it. I understand."

"No!" Lance protested immediately. His hands caught Keith's wrists as if to keep them in place, cradling his face so nicely. Keith blinked in surprise. "Sorry, I'm just...no. I feel fine."

The look Keith gave him was one of pure disbelief. Lance sighed. He should have known better after all this time than to think he could bullshit Keith Kogane.

"I just miss you," Lance confessed, a slight blush to his cheeks, which he found to be, frankly, pretty ridiculous. Here they were, seven years together, five years married, admiring one another in all their naked glory on their marital bed. And yet, this confession of a deeper emotion still made Lance feel stupid, cheesy. "We haven't...really seen each other this week, you know? I guess we kind of took all that time together for granted."

Keith hummed in agreement, then captured Lance's mouth in his own. Despite the clear, aching lust between them, the kiss was deep and sweet and kind. It was everything they'd been missing.

"I miss you, too," Keith breathed against Lance's lips when he pulled away. His thumb stroked soothingly over the tired bags under Lance's eyes. "Can I make it up to you? Can I blow you?"

All of Lance's previous courage to speak his mind seemed to leave him in a rush. His entire vocabulary was gone, in fact, because God, yes, he wanted that so bad. He nodded dumbly in approval.

So much for verbal expression. But, then again, Keith had never been much for words, either.

They were fantastic at expressing their emotions to each other, actually. They did it every day.

They did it through soft cheek kisses and intertwined fingers. They did it through heads resting on chests and whispered reassurances in the midst of war-pain-terror-Iwasjustakid-panic attacks. They did it through constant worrying and fussing over each other through even mild sicknesses and injuries. They did it through bringing each other physical pleasure on a lazy evening and take-out food on a busy workday.

But words had never been their thing. They teased good-naturedly between kisses, gasped I love you's in the throes of passion, whispered pet names and praises as they held each other close in the afterglow. They talked about their days and their memories and current events, their opinions and thoughts on random topics.

Emotional conversation, however, was different. Things didn't get talked through; it was never necessary.

Fights only ever started in words. Fights were then continued in angry wall sex and in pointedly ignoring one another in the halls of the Garrison for an entire day, or maybe two. Every now and then, fights meant sleeping back to back without any form of acknowledgement.

The same fights rarely _ended_ in words, though. Apologies were given in shoulder massages, body kisses, favorite dinners, gentle love-making to form sweet memories that would bandage over the angry fucking, and TV-glow cuddles.

They didn't talk. Not really, because it wasn't how they worked. They knew each other so damn well that they'd never thought they needed to.

_Maybe_ , Lance thought as he watched his husband release his hold on his face so that he could kiss down his body instead, worshipping his war scars and imperfect blemishes like the sun and moon themselves lay before him - _maybe it's time to change that._

His very soul felt lighter on the rare occasion when they talked like this, his already so-deep love for Keith blossoming exponentially. Maybe that should have been a sign to make verbal problem-solving an integrated part of their relationship long ago, and they were simply too young and foolish to realize it.

He had to be very stupid to only now realize as much. Was this what maturity felt like?

Twenty-five and still growing up, he supposed.

"I love you," Keith murmured just before he licked up the underside of Lance's dick in an agonizingly slow motion, earning a choked moan for his efforts. "I'm sorry I haven't been around this week. I'm trying. I swear, I'm trying. I still love you. Always love you."

His lips sank down around the tip, then, tongue swirling over the slit. Simultaneously, two hands fell to rest on Lance's waist, grounding them both; a reassurance. _I'm here. I'm trying. I love you._

"Keith," Lance groaned. His fingers found the long, mussed tangle of Keith's hair, gently tugging out the ponytail tie. He drew circles in his husband's scalp, a sweet massage in contrast to the typical grasping and pulling. Keith made a soft sound of approval around Lance's cock, head bobbing expertly. "Keith. Love you. God, so much. Forgive you, 's okay, know you... _f-fuck_...know you love me. Just...kinda hurt my f-feelings."

Keith locked eyes with him as he hallowed out his cheeks around Lance's cock, causing Lance to whine and buck slightly up toward him. His gaze was concerned, questioning.

"Fuck, yes," Lance breathed, then blinked, realizing Keith was waiting for an explanation. "Thought you were avoiding me. Just...I get insecure...you know? Made me sad. W-wanted to be...better for you. 'S why I sent pictures. Tried to remind you that you like being with me. Guess it worked, though, h-huh?"

The other man's eyebrows drew together for the second time that night. The next noise he made around Lance was a different kind; sad, disapproving, and far from sexy. The vibration sent shockwaves up Lance's spine all the same, and he whimpered.

Keith moved a hand from his left hip to extract one of Lance's from his hair, twisting their fingers together instead. He kept his eyes locked on his lover's as he pulled off with an obscene pop, ignoring Lance's whine of protest. He crawled up Lance's breath-heaving body to kiss him, firm and kind, Lance's own taste left on his tongue when they pulled apart.

"I'm sorry," Keith whispered, scratching at the fine hairs on the nape of Lance's neck. He looked so damn sad, and Lance regretted saying anything. He never wanted Keith to be sad. This poor man had suffered enough sadness for a thousand lifetimes. He deserved a husband who would make him perfectly happy, and nothing less. He deserved better than Lance. "I didn't...think about that, I guess. I didn't mean to make you question yourself. Do you..."

Keith bit his lip, and not in the sexy way. Lance knew the question he was hesitating to ask. _Do you need to start seeing a doctor again?_ And, maybe, also, _do you need to go back on the anti-depressants? Are you having bad thoughts? Are you_ okay _?_

For now, he was okay - mostly. But who knew? Chronic depression was an "unpredictable bitch," as Pidge, a fellow sufferer, liked to put it.

"I'm okay," Lance said, pressing reassuring kisses to Keith's jaw, running a hand down the bare chest above him. He wanted to leave it there, but they were talking now, he reminded himself. They couldn't do this anymore. They had to _talk_. "I mean. I can kind of feel it coming sometimes, you know? And it...might be starting again. Or it might just be a fluke. I - really don't know. Time will tell, I guess."

What went unsaid was something they both already knew; routine was important to Lance, for the sake of his mental health, and their routine had been very much disrupted.

Keith gazed down at him with so much emotion; so conflicted, so uncertain, so _worried_. It was understandable.

When their relationship was still fresh, and they were struggling to settle down into life on this new, battle-torn Earth after years of relentless war, Lance had quickly destabilized. Keith, a loving but not-sure-how-to-handle-this boyfriend, had dropped the idea of counseling in full surrender the first time Lance shut him down. Probably in fear of ruining this fragile new thing between them, Lance realized later.

The final tipping point before his diagnosis had been a mental breakdown in the midst of what was supposed to be hot sex. A kind whisper of _you're perfect, I love you_ from Keith's lips as Lance made love to him had sent him into a crying jag. Ten minutes later, curled up on the bed, sobbing into a bewildered Keith's naked chest, the truth had dropped like an atomic bomb.

_Why do you love me? I'm not perfect. I can't do anything right._

_I wish Allura hadn't saved me. I wish I'd really died. Sometimes, I....sometimes I just want to die._

Keith looked like he'd seen a ghost now, as if the memory was haunting him the way it was haunting Lance. It probably was.

Lance wished he could kiss all of his fears away the way he used to. He wanted to flip Keith over onto his back, fuck him nice and slow, or maybe press his own face into the pillows and let Keith take him from behind until he came untouched. They would let the unspoken memories and concerns wash away, bandaging untreated wounds with sex, trusting the hormonal release of climax to put their minds at ease.

But then, he figured, he'd never really been kissing and fucking those fears away; just forcing them into silence, to live unspoken in Keith's head until Lance started acting like himself again and they finally became irrelevant. It was never a solution, really, was it?

_Talk_ , he pushed himself mentally. _We're talking. It helps_.

"I'm not suicidal," Lance whispered, the tips of his fingers stroking the Galra mark on Keith's face that Lance had become so accustomed to, he was sometimes shocked to  consciously remember it was there. "Not anymore, if that's what you're worried about. Not even depressed right now, really. Just a little sad."

"You'd tell me if you were thinking like that again," Keith said, burying his face into Lance's in-need-of-a-trim hair. It wasn't a question. With his old team-leader tone firmly in place, it was a command. "You would tell me, and we'd get you help, okay? Don't go through that without me. I'm right here for you."

"I won't." Lance's lips pressed briefly to Keith's muscled shoulder, then to the collarbone alongside it. "I swear, I won't."

"Good." A deep breath, shaky, rattled where their chests were pressed together. "God, I'm so sorry. I really fucking love you."

"It's okay. We're okay now. I love you, too."

And Lance did love him, and he did love talking, and he did love the way they could be together like this, the way they could mend their rifts so easily.

But he really was okay now. He knew he was. And now Keith knew it, too, the air around them suddenly richer in oxygen and easier to breathe.

And, honestly? His cock, still hard and covered in saliva from the blowjob, was beginning to throb where Keith's own erection (now only half hard, likely from being faced with a sudden concern for Lance's wellbeing, Lance realized a bit guiltily) was pressed against it. Gentle was quickly becoming the last thing he wanted in that moment. Passion, cries of pleasure, moans and stuttered swears - those were more in style at this time of night, in Lance's opinion.

He expressed this by thrusting his hips slightly into Keith's a couple times, groaning at the surprised gasp from Keith's lips and the twitch of interest from his husband's once again hardening dick.

"This is, uh, nice and all, but I really want you to fuck me," he breathed into Keith's ear. Keith moved a hand to grip Lance's smaller bicep, holding tight. _Controlling_. God, that was hot. "Please. I wasn't just sending the pics for you, that was for me, too. I missed your cock so much. I'm already prepped. Just fuck me."

"Was kinda hoping you'd fuck _me_ ," Keith replied, lifting his face again to look at Lance. He wore a slight smirk, the sheen of emotion in his eyes fading to dark lust. "Why do you think I was blowing you? It always makes you want to take control, seeing me like that."

He wasn't wrong. Watching the head-strong man submit so willfully to him absolutely made Lance want to further the beauty of the concept and fuck him silly, though he hadn't realized until now that Keith did that on purpose.

But the feeling of the dildo pressing against his prostate from earlier was still so fresh in his mind, the memory his own voice begging for Keith in an empty room making him ache to have Keith dominate him, tell him what to do, own him. That was equally as hot, if in an entirely different way.

He supposed they'd have to compromise. This reaching-verbal-agreements thing was kind of nice, after all, wasn't it?

"Let me ride you," Lance proposed, pushing on Keith's chest, encouraging him to roll over so that their positions were flipped. Keith obeyed, pupils dilated, a dumbfounded look on his face. "You can let me do the work, and I can have your cock up my ass. Win-win."

Lance moved to straddle Keith's waist once he had him where he wanted him. Keith's cock, now fully hard, pressed against Lance's ass cheeks. Lance moaned, grinding back slightly against it, fingertips teasing the head of his own dick.

"Shit," Keith rasped, resting his hands on Lance's thighs (which were much slimmer and less muscled than Keith's own, but Keith always insisted on calling them "thicc" through text message - Lance never had the heart to correct him. It was flattering, albeit entirely incorrect). "Yes. Fuck yourself on me, Lance. Fucking love it when you ride me."

Lance grinned, and Keith grinned breathlessly back; they couldn't help it. It was infectious. The brief but healing conversation had made the weight on their shoulders light. Meanwhile, the sudden attention given to each other's bodies after a week's lack of action made them hard and horny.

"We should talk about deep shit more often," Lance breathed, leaning down to kiss Keith roughly, sloppily, saliva making a mess between them. He moaned into Keith's mouth, letting him swallow the sound, as he rolled his hips and reached a hand down where his own dick was caught between them.

And this was where any words not driven by lust ended, both men slipping back into their comfortable, familiar ways with a cleared air between them. Keith's tongue dominating Lance's mouth, forcing him into submission, was agreement enough.

"You sure you're still prepped?" Keith asked, head falling back onto the pillows with breathy pants as Lance worked lube onto his husband's length at an intentionally slow pace. "I know you were using a toy, but you were asleep when I came back."

"Only for, like, ten minutes," Lance assured him. For time's sake, he didn't talk about the fact that he'd been using the toy on and off for nearly two hours in a desperate attempt to cum from something other than his hand. "Trust me, I'm still good."

Lance wiped the lube from his fingers haphazardly onto the sheets, making Keith wrinkle his nose. Keith himself preferred to keep a bathroom towel handy for quick and easy cleanup, both of lube and other things. Lance, personally, found having a soiled towel draped over the edge of the bed supremely unsexy. The sheets were going to get dirty, anyways.

Still, Keith didn't say anything. He lifted his gaze to Lance's face instead, eyes sparkling with anticipation and affection. God, he was gorgeous.

"Ready?" Lance asked, heart pounding as he raised himself onto his knees, using one hand to guide Keith's tip to his pre-prepped entrance.

"You tell me. You're the one about to be filled with my, _ah - God, fuck, yes._ Oh, God."

Keith's deliberate teasing was promptly cut off by a warm, familiar hole lowering onto him. Lance intended to be all smug about it, but the sensation hit him like a truck, too. He found himself instead with his head thrown back, mouth open, hands moving to brace himself on Keith's knees behind him just to keep himself upright.

Keith babbled nonsense praises and swears below him, his calloused hands exploring every inch of his husband's body he could reach. Lance still found it in him to be a tad smug; he took the reaction as a compliment. He did, after all, have a thick and damn talented Cuban ass.

(This kind of reaction from Keith had prompted Lance to randomly thank his parents for his heritage in the past, causing them significant confusion, but the gift couldn't go unappreciated.)

He made huffy little sounds of pleasure as he sank slowly onto Keith, the impressive thickness of his length meaning there was relentless motion against his prostate as he fully sheathed himself onto his lover. He'd forgotten that Keith was bigger than the small-medium dildo he'd been using. The burn was slight, but there. Despite it, Lance was certain he would never get used to how damn _good_ this felt.

Twenty years down the line, he would still mewl like a needy bitch whenever Keith was inside him. He would never apologize. And judging by the way Keith was growling at him now, ordering him to move, he wouldn't tire of it, either.

"Fuck yourself on me," Keith commanded, and Lance felt more than heard a growl reverberating low in the other's chest. Lance nodded jerkily and obeyed, beginning to ride Keith in slow, deep thrusts. He took his own bottom lip between his teeth, whimpering in pleasure.

"K-Keith," he panted, head dropping forward and eyes fluttering closed. "God, feels so good."

"You're _mine_. Your ass is mine. Makes you feel so good to fill yourself up with me, huh? You're a slut, but just for me. My cock is all you want. Nobody else."

"Fuck! Yes, God, I am. I'm your slut, I only want you. Just you, _fuck_."

Keith wasn't wrong, Lance was not shy to admit. He couldn't imagine, after all these years, having any other person below him like this. The two girls he'd been with pre-Voltron were nothing in comparison, neither physically nor emotionally. Keith was all he wanted to feel.

If there was one thing Lance wasn't expecting about this sweet rain after too many days of drought, it was how quickly it was all over. He was used to having Keith inside him, or being inside of Keith, for a good ten minutes - on the "higher end of average time for intercourse," the internet had once informed him. They enjoyed the process before one of them finally came, then helped the other find their own bliss.

This time, they lasted barely over four. That was the price they paid for neglecting their sex life, he guessed.

That's not to say the sex this time was bad. God, no part of it was bad.

The slighter man all but screamed as he rode Keith (though he was fairly certain making him scream was Keith's goal for the night.) He could hardly control the moans and cries that escaped him, a pent-up stash of lust spilling over.

It didn't help that Keith was growling dirty-talk up at him, making promises about throwing him against the wall tomorrow and fucking him rough and greedy until he saw stars, then watching his own cum leak out of "that pretty little ass." Lance missed the next part, because he actually _did_ see stars when Keith thrust up to meet him at just the right angle. Something about marking territory, which should have been gross and reminded him of Animal Planet, but wasn't and didn't.

His response was, in fact, to _beg_ Keith to use him, to fill him, to own him, to make him his bitch. The words hardly sounded like his own - dirty talk was more of Keith's domain - but Lance meant them wholeheartedly.

Keith's aggressive style of topping was a stark contrast to Lance's let-me-take-care-of-you ways, but it never made Lance feel like he was being hunted (though the words implied as much.) It made him feel safe; enveloped, protected, like Keith would kill a thousand men to keep Lance whole and well and _happy_.

Honestly, he probably would. And that was...that was really, really nice.

Lance grasped his own cock and pumped it furiously as the pace of their fucking became rushed and sloppy. His thighs quaked with exertion and speed. Skin slapped skin rhythmically, Keith's balls brushing his spread ass cheeks often as Keith gripped Lance's hips and took back a portion of the control, thrusting up to meet Lance each time he brought himself down.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Lance sobbed. Tears of pleasure began to leak from the corners of his eyes. Such was a common physical reaction for him. It had made Keith nervous, early on all those years ago, made him stop and dry the salty streaks with his thumb and ask if he was okay.

Now, Keith groaned in pleasure at the sight that he recognized as meaning Lance was nearing the edge, fucking upward in quick, efficient snaps of his hips. Lance went all but entirely still above him, his own hand gripping his cock but not moving around it any longer. The mental haze that was beginning to cloud his senses made it difficult to do much of anything but cry and beg, beg, _beg_ for Keith to take him there.

And take him there, he did. Lance did not protest when Keith pulled Lance off of himself, flipped him roughly onto his back, and grabbed Lance's ankles to wrap them around his own waist. Lance came when Keith slid back into his used ass with ease and pulled the still hand off Lance's cock to stroke it himself, barely beginning to fuck him again before cum was coating both of their stomachs.

Lance allowed himself to drift in the overwhelming sensation of pleasure, making his way slowly back to Earth when it was over. His soul, which felt very much like it had taken a joyride up in the oxygen-deprived atmosphere, reattached to his physical body just in time for him to hear Keith's growls turn into soft whines and moans. The muscular build above him trembled as something warm and familiar filled Lance deep inside.

He made a soft hum of approval as Keith choked on moans and words of praise, grinding slightly into Lance as he came. Lance tightened his legs around Keith's waist, pulling him close, fingers carding through long, dark locks of hair.

"Fuck," Keith whispered as he came down from his high, carefully pulling out before relaxing boneless and limp on top of him. Lance allowed his legs to drop from Keith's waist, leaving Keith lying on his torso between his bent knees. Keith rested his head on Lance's chest and gasped harshly for air where Lance's own breaths were just starting to even out. "God. So good, babe. Felt _so_ good inside you."

Lance was sure he would have been twitching with interest at that had his body been physically capable of getting it up again.

He giggled instead, light and intentional. He'd learned over the years that those little laughs, innocent and clean as if they hadn't just done each other so damn dirty, would make Keith's arms tighten around him in a silent promise of safety.

His theory was proven correct again, just like every time before. Keith held onto Lance as if losing him was an imminent threat.

"I love you," Lance said to the back of Keith's head. Keith responded wordlessly, by pressing tiny kisses to and around Lance's right nipple where his face was already buried. "I'm...really glad we talked. We should, you know...talk about things more often."

"Because it apparently ends in mindblowing quickies?"

"Yes, because it ends in mindblowing quickies. That's exactly why."

Soon enough, Lance was not the only one giggling. Keith's laugh, voice in a higher pitch than normal, was music to Lance's ears. It made him want to wrap Keith up in a similarly protective embrace, to preserve the sanctity of that joyful noise as long as he was alive to do so.

And there was no reason not to, so that was exactly what Lance did. He fell asleep with Keith snoring slightly on his chest, their arms wrapped around one another in almost bruising grips.

Lance still didn't miss the way Keith's fingers traced his inner left arm, just above his elbow, right before he drifted to sleep. Keith never lifted his head to look and find the spot. He just knew.

A spot where there rested several thin, slightly raised scars, Lance's one and only experimentation with self-harm not too many days after his bomb-drop confession.

An experiment that had been interrupted unexpectedly. An experiment that had ended with Keith angrily wrestling the kitchen knife from his hands, then crying into his hair and promising _we'll get you help, you'll be okay, I'll help you_ as Lance begged him to leave and pretend he hadn't seen anything, _please, just let it be._

Keith never touched the scars consciously. He only did so when he was half asleep or deep in thought. A subconscious reminder to himself, Lance always assumed, that what could have been _wasn't_. 

Lance hadn't once in the past six years brought attention to Keith's habit that he likely didn't even know he had. He didn't mention it now, either. A smile tugged at his lips as he listened to Keith's soft snores ("I don't snore!" "I swear to God, you _do_!") and he fell asleep to the sound like a lullaby.

They were going to be okay. They always were.

 

* * *

**epilogue; what would and will be:**

(Keith would end up going to Iverson the next day and putting his foot down on the shift change, to which Iverson's bad eye would twitch in warning and remembrance. He granted approval, effective immediately.)

(Keith would smile wide when he gave Lance the good news later that afternoon. Lance would cry tears that could have been of happiness or any emotion, really, he wasn't sure.)

(Keith would worry, verbally now that they'd learned their lesson, because Lance wasn't one to cry over such random things unless depression's grip commanded him to do so.)

(Lance would dry his tears and kiss Keith and promise to keep a close eye on his own emotions, and talk to a professional the second symptoms cropped up. Then he would change the subject by demanding they celebrate the return to normal schedule in a more physical way now that they had evenings back to themselves. Keith would wholeheartedly agree.)

(A very worried, voice-wavering Adam would call Keith during the workday not two weeks later to tell him he'd found Lance having a full-blown, sobbing breakdown in the men's room, sleeves of his uniform pushed up and nails scratching his own forearms hard enough to draw blood, the words _why can't I be normal_ on his lips.)

(Keith would hear Lance's heaving sobs, echoed against the bathroom tile in the background, the self-deprecating words still flowing.)

(Keith would gather a location, promise in a steady and sure voice that he was on his way, and hang up the phone.) 

(Said phone would clatter to the floor of an empty hallway. Keith would fall to his knees, press his palms against his eyes, and cry.)

(Appointments would be scheduled, medicines not used in years would be re-prescribed, and many more tears would be shed.)

(Pidge, Hunk, Shiro, Adam, and a few of Lance's family members would, when approached by Keith, all solemnly agree to participate in a rotating schedule.)

(Lance would not be left in any room alone, nor use a bathroom with a locking door, for a very long time.)

(Shiro and Adam would insist on having them over for dinner every Friday night. Just to check in, they said. According to Shiro, Adam was pretty damn shaken by the state he'd found Lance in, and the four of them really didn't spend enough time together, anyways.)

(Lance would heal.)

(Lance would smile again without direct prompting.)

(Lance would once again throw out a half-full bottle of anti-depressants that hadn't been used in months, eventually.)

(The feelings that used to be expressed only in touch would now be accompanied by words. Emotions would be talked through in a reasonable, adult manner, even as reassurances were massaged into stress-tense shoulders.)

(Nights that had become all tears and quiet conversations about medicine and therapy and ways to stop horrible, intrusive thoughts of death would not last forever.)

(Nights would once more become passion and lust, moans and skin-on-skin and yes, yes, please, there.)

(Nights would be for crying again, eventually, but only in the best way.)

(The cries would emanate from a baby monitor on the nightstand, accompanied by sleepy arguments about whose turn it was, and framed adoption papers would adorn the living room walls.)

(Keith and Lance would be okay.)

(They always were.)

**Author's Note:**

> The reason behind Iverson's eye "warning" him to accept Keith's demand, if you aren't already aware: it's been confirmed as canon that Keith is the one who messed up Iverson's eye, and that's why he was kicked out of the Garrison. So that's a thing.
> 
> I'm going to be honest, I think this is far from my best work - but I'm posting it in the spirit of edit-free NaNoWriMo. I personally think that little epilogue was the best part. I do apologize if your eyes bled from all the run-on sentences. If you did enjoy something about it, please let me know in a comment!


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